


I Don't Think You Notice

by smoothsailing



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, denial? i guess, once again i suck at tagging but just read this pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16679971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: prompt: fresh off his win at the World Tour Finals, Sascha finally works up the nerve to kiss his "best friend" Marcelo.





	I Don't Think You Notice

**Author's Note:**

> this prompt was given to me by a very special person and her wish is my command so
> 
> Title from "Notice" by Little Mix and yes, I am promoting my girls again so #streamLM5

“What’s with the looks?” Marcelo says. It’s just the two of them in the locker room because it’s early and they try to get out to the practice courts ASAP.

“Fuck you talking about, Melo?” Sascha says back, but he knows. He’s the one looking, after all.

“You look at me with those eyes, you know, not like normal.” Sascha prays for someone to walk into the locker room to save him from this.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, Sascha, we’ve both been in a lot of locker rooms and no one has looked at me the way that you do.” He says it with that smile on his face, too.

“Shut the fuck up, Melo, I don’t look at you in some special way. Maybe it’s you who looks at me, huh?”

Marcelo straight up laughs at him. Laughs like Sascha isn’t already super fucking embarrassed and he’s not rubbing it in his fucking face.

“Alright, Sascha, whatever you say, man. Come on, let’s go to the courts.” He doesn’t really want to go practice with Marcelo now, fuck him.

Except how the only thing he wants to do right now is go practice with Marcelo and stare at him until he gets caught again.

Fuck.

____

A few weeks later, Sascha is sitting on his bed with his headphones on Facebook, chatting with a few buddies back in Russia. He’s got the music blasting loud but he can still see Marcelo giggling at whatever he’s looking at on his phone. He wishes that laying on his side with his back to Marcelo was a more comfortable position because he can only take so much giggling before he needs to settle himself down.

He reaches that point about 20 minutes later and heads to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror and whispers, “Marcelo Melo is your colleague and good friend. You feel nothing more for him. Period,” to himself in Russian.

When he exits the bathroom, Marcelo is changing into his sleep shorts. Sascha makes it incredibly obvious that he is _not_ watching him change. He starts to strip off his shirt and pants in exchange for pyjamas, too. When he finishes and looks over to Marcelo to ask him if it’s okay if he turns the TV off, he’s definitely staring at him with a small curl to his lips.

“What the fuck, man?” Sascha says because Marcelo’s being more obvious than he’s ever seen anyone be before.

“Huh?” Marcelo challenges, just because he’s an asshole.

“You were watching me change, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t doing anything I haven’t seen you do before,” Marcelo says and then finally looks away and starts to get into bed.

“Whatever man, can I turn the TV off?”

“You can do whatever you want, Sascha, whatever you feel like.”

Sascha rolls his eyes at Marcelo and turns both the TV and the bedside lamp off as fast as he can.

____

The next day, Marcelo starts talking to him the moment they step into the room about some shit about Brazil and his dad and something else. He stopped listening, like, 5 minutes ago and is just using Marcelo’s rambling as an excuse to look at his mouth every once in a while without it being weird.

Marcelo’s been silent for a minute, done with whatever story he was telling, before he says, “Sascha, are you even listening to me?”

Sascha thinks about if for a beat before saying, “Nope.”

“You were looking at me like you were listening,” Marcelo says smiling.

“What’s with you and the way I fucking look at you?”

Marcelo laughs again. “You’re funny, Sascha.”

Sascha’s sure that he has not said anything funny. “You think everything is funny, Melo.”

Marcelo drops it and asks Sascha what he wants from room service. Thankfully, they eat in silence, noses pressed in their phones.

Sascha is proud that he doesn’t even look at Marcelo once. That is, until he gets up to walk to the bathroom. Then, he tracks every step Marcelo takes until he closes the bathroom door, exhaling loudly once it shuts.

____

Once he goes to Paris, Sascha is happy to see his parents and Mischa. At least they don’t analyze every fucking look he gives them.

Mischa takes him out to dinner that night and asks him how everything is going.

“Good, you know, practices doing well. I feel good on court, hitting the ball clean.”

“How’s rooming with Marcelo? You two are like attached at the hip, right?”

“It’s fine, you know. Better than being all alone, I guess.”

Mischa nods his head and they eat in silence for a minute.

“You and Marcelo, keeping things friendly, right?” Mischa asks and Sascha almost chokes on his food.

“Ah, yeah, Misch, of course we are, we’re colleagues. It’s important for us to be friendly.”

“Just checking because I see the way he looks at you sometimes and you know you promised me to keep shit under control.”

Sascha wants to throw his chair down and maybe toss his plate of food on ground. “The way he looks at me, what the fuck, Misch?”

“Settle down, Sascha. He just sometimes looks over at you and it looks like there is more going on there, but I will drop it, just wanted to check in.”

“Marcelo Melo and I do not look at each other in any special fucking way. End of story. We’re roommates and friends and that’s it.”

“Alright, Alright, I get it, sorry.”

“I keep my promises, ok?”

“Yea, Sascha. Got it.”

They don’t talk too much for the rest of the meal, just small comments on the food, and how long it takes for the waitress to bring the check. After they get back to the hotel, Sascha goes straight to his room and vows to never look at Marcelo Melo ever again.

  
____

Another tournament, another hotel room, another 100 failed attempts to not check out Marcelo Melo, this time in London. Sascha is at the point where he is just blaming biology and chemistry because he’s a young adult and him and Marcelo just have a natural attraction towards one another.

Somehow, Sascha wins the tournament, beating Roger and Novak back to back. Marcelo’s watching in his box, and Sascha can’t stop thinking it has something to do with the level he displayed. The last game seems to last forever, and, finally, he rips a final backhand past Djokovic. Then, he drops to the ground, and the first person he looks at when he gets up is, well, Marcelo. He’s got that smile on him, that fucking smile… brighter than the sun, Sascha thinks. He still can’t fucking believe it, yet he’s walking back to his hotel room with this huge trophy in his hands, and Marcelo’s arm draped around his.

“You’ve got the best backhand on tour,” Marcelo says, taping his back.

“Damn right I do,” Sascha says. Marcelo just giggles and rolls his eyes.

Sascha leads them to their door and waits for Marcelo to take the key out of his pocket and open the door. Once the door is open, he pulls himself out from under Marcelo’s arm, but Marcelo follows by putting his arm around Sascha’s waist. Sascha intends to push Marcelo away the moment the door closes but that motherfucker is strong and grips his waist tight.

“You’ve got the best goddamn backhand on tour,” Marcelo repeats, looking up at Sascha from his side.

“Yea, I know, now let me go,” Sascha says trying to push Marcelo away again.

Marcelo finally drops his hand from Sascha’s waist after displaying that he is, in fact, stronger than Sascha, even if he already knew that. Once his arm is dropped, he pushes Sascha onto the closest bed - Marcelo’s - and walks to the bathroom.

While Marcelo is in the bathroom, Sascha changes into sleep shorts and gets into bed. He’s thinking about how tight Marcelo’s hand was on his waist, how it felt to be pushed onto his bed, the look in Marcelo’s eye’s before he turned away to the bathroom.

He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and doesn’t even notice Marcelo isn’t in the bathroom anymore. He glances over at the other bed and Marcelo is changing, looking right at Sascha.

“You know,” Sascha says, not looking away from Marcelo, “My brother said you give me looks on the court during practices and, like, not normal ones.”

“Yeah, so?” Marcelo says smiling.

“So, it’s not just me, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Yeah, Sascha, I know. Did I not make that obvious?”

“Huh? I thought you were just, like, trying to make fun of me.”

“You’re not actually that stupid, Sascha. You might be in denial, but you’re not stupid.”

Sascha doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Marcelo for a second, shakes his head and walks past him to the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face, counting the number of shower tiles. When he’s done, he takes a deep breath, shuts the lights off and opens the door.

He’s not expecting Marcelo to be right there, in the doorway, looking up at him.

“What?” Sascha says pushing his way past him.

He gets to his bed with Melo right on his tail. He sits down and Marcelo stands right next to his bed. “I’m sick of doing this, Sascha.”

“Of doing what, Marcelo?”

“Of fucking pretending that we’re just two guys who aren’t attracted to each other.”

Sascha doesn’t say anything to him. He just looks at Marcelo, standing right next to his bed, looking down on him. Marcelo reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder and every instinct Sascha has wants to push his hand away. But he doesn’t. Marcelo takes it as an invitation to sit down, moving his hand up to Sascha’s face once he is seated.

Marcelo starts to pull himself closer to Sascha. When their lips are about an inch away, Sascha closes his eyes and says, “I promised Mischa I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” Sascha says and then kisses Marcelo. It’s tentative at first, soft lips and careful movements.

Marcelo pulls away before it gets more intense and looks Sascha straight in the eye, not saying anything. Sascha blinks and Marcelo smiles, moving his eyes to his lips before connecting their mouths together again, this time with open lips. When their tongues touch for the first time, Sascha can’t help but moan into Marcelo’s mouth.

They kiss like that on the bed for a while, Marcelo eventually pushing Sascha so he’s lying down, and climbs on top of him. Sascha lets his hands explore Marcelo’s back and arms. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been doing this for when Marcelo pulls away and flops down on the bed next to Sascha. Sascha takes this opportunity to climb on top of him, hands on either side of his head.

He drops forward, letting his entire weight drop down onto Marcelo, covering Marcelo's body with his own. Marcelo lets out a soft 'oof,' as the air is forced out of his lungs, but otherwise doesn't complain. Sascha presses his mouth to the bare strip of skin above Marcelo's collar, below his hairline. He kisses him there, sweetly, before setting his teeth in Marcelo's skin.

"Sascha," Marcelo says, his voice coming out in a soft whine. Sascha ignores him, sliding his fingers underneath the hem of Marcelo's shirt, pressing his fingers into Marcelo's skin, his strong waist.

Marcelo tilts his hips up, pressing into Sascha's body, but Sascha doesn't allow himself to be distracted, runs his hands up Marcelo's torso until his t-shirt is tucked up in his armpits. Sascha shifts his weight and pulls Marcelo's shirt the rest of the way off. His eyes roam over the exposed bare skin, a canvas he'd like nothing more than to mark up with his hands and mouth.

He resists the urge, instead runs his palms lightly down Marcelo's spine and tucks his fingers into the elastic of Marcelo's shorts and tugs, exposing his beautiful, perfect ass. He takes a moment just to appreciate, running his hands over the pert cheeks, before drawing back and spanking him hard.

"Ow, fuck," Marcelo says, but his complaint is belayed by the way he tilts his hips back further, silently asking for more. Sascha ignores him for now, instead slides forward so he can cover Marcelo's body again with his own. Marcelo is strong and sturdy below him, and Sascha’s dick, half hard from simply watching Marcelo spread out in front of him, slides perfectly into the crease of his ass. He rolls his hips a few times, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. Marcelo presses back into it, and Sascha plants his hands on Marcelo's shoulders, holding him down, and giving himself better leverage.

He could get off like this, soft and easy, rubbing against Marcelo's ass, but, right now, he wants something more. It's risky, with the rest of the team being in the rooms down the hall. Sascha lost track of who was staying in which room, not sure who's on either side of them, but he knows they need to be quiet.

"Wanna fuck you," he whispers right in Marcelo's ear. "Wanna get in you, fuck,"

Marcelo moans, and presses into Sascha, bucking up against Sascha's weight, but it's no use. Marcelo is sturdy and strong, but Sascha’s put on at least fifteen pounds of muscle weight over the offseason. With his hands on Marcelo's shoulders and his hips pinning Marcelo's to the bed, he's effectively trapped below Sascha.

"Ugh, fuck," Marcelo says. "Sascha, come on."

Sascha slides his hand, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Marcelo's neck, pressing him down into the mattress. He trails his other hand down Marcelo's spine, dipping his fingers between Marcelo's cheeks and pressing on his hole.

"Oh,  _fuck_ " Marcelo says, bucking against Sascha's hold. He has nowhere to go. "Sascha," he says.

"Yeah?" Sascha asks. "You want it?"

"Yeah," Marcelo says. "Yeah, I want it, come on."

Sascha wants to make him wait. Wants to make him writhe and want. Wants to make him  _beg_. He presses down harder, sliding the tip of his finger inside Marcelo and tugging gently on his rim. Marcelo groans, hips shifting, trying to get more of Sascha, but he's trapped, he's pinned. There's a flush working its way down his shoulders, and Sascha gets lost watching it for a moment, fingers working on Marcelo's rim.

"Fuck," he says. "Where's the fucking lube, Marcelo?"

It takes Marcelo a moment to gather his wits enough to answer. Sascha feels a sense of smug superiority of taking him apart so thoroughly with just a few touches.

“It’s in my bag,” Marcelo says.

Sascha doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to let Marcelo up from where he’s thoroughly pinned below him, but needs must. He grabs it from the side pocket and joins Marcelo back on the bed, settling his weight over the back of Marcelo’s thighs.

He pops the lid open and pours some onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up. He smears the lube between Marcelo’s cheeks, transfixed at how shiny and wet his hole looks, just about ready to be fucked. Unable to wait, he fists his dick, getting it wet and teases along the crack. The head of his cock catches on Marcelo’s hole, and he presses a little almost but not quite pushing in.

Marcelo is moaning and arching beneath him, and Sascha grips his shoulders roughly, pinning him down to the bed. His hips move slowly, a sinuous grind that glides through the lube covering Marcelo’s ass. He moves one hand to the middle of Marcelo’s back, right between his shoulder blades. “Stay down,” he says, using his other hand to grip his dick.

He teases the head of his cock over Marcelo’s rim, enough pressure to watch it spread open for him. His cock pops in, and he and Marcelo groan in tandem.

“Marcelo, shit, _babe_ , you’re so tight.”

Marcelo arches his back, trying to sheath more of Sascha’s cock, and it takes everything in him not to fuck forward hard and fast.

“Can I?” he asks. “Please, Marcelo, I need--”

“Yeah, come on, come on, Sascha, fucking  _move_ \--”

Sascha doesn’t need to be told twice. He pushes forward until he’s balls-deep, one hand still holding Marcelo down. The other moves to Marcelo’s hip, gripping him tight. He uses his leverage to roll his hips down hard, lower back working as he drives his cock deeper. Marcelo is so tight below him, writhing and groaning, but unable to get the traction to move from where Sascha put him.

Sascha loves him like this, pliant and good below him, and he wants to watch Marcelo fall apart.

He pulls Marcelo up to his knees, leaving his chest and shoulders pressed down to the sheets. He squeezes Marcelo’s hip once more before reaching around and taking Marcelo’s cock in a loose grip.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” Marcelo moans. “Oh fuck, oh please, Sascha… _Sascha_.”

“Yeah,” Sascha grunts, his voice coming out thick and rough. “Yeah, fuck, take it, gonna give it to you--” His hand drifts down, cupping Marcelo’s balls, and pressing up behind them. Marcelo jerks and groans, twisting his head so he can look at Sascha, trademark grin firmly in place.

Sascha leans down, draping his body over Marcelo’s, and fitting his mouth against Marcelo’s. It’s awkward, the angle not quite working, but Sascha doesn’t care. Marcelo doesn’t either, judging by the way his lips part eagerly, wantonly taking Sascha’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. Sascha can’t help the way his hips jerk at that, cock pulsing inside Marcelo, and he’s so close to coming.

He wants Marcelo to come first, wants to feel that tight heat clenching down around him as Marcelo comes on his cock, so he palms Marcelo’s balls again, as he bites at Marcelo’s lips. His balls are soft and delicate in Sascha’s hand, and he pulls on them, ever so gently. Marcelo groans, incoherent, and uncoordinated. He is no longer kissing Sascha back, just breathing on his face. Sascha leaves his hand where it is.

“God, fuck, Marcelo,” he groans. “You feel so good on my cock, wanna feel you come hot and tight around me.” He slides his hand up, trailing the pads of two fingers over the Marcelo’s shaft, circling the head with the briefest touch.

It’s enough to have Marcelo coming with a long groan, clenching just as hot and tight around Sascha’s cock as he anticipated. He holds on as long as he can, fucking Marcelo through his orgasm, as he writhes and shakes, coating his own stomach and thighs, and Sascha’s hand with come. Sascha strokes him through it, to the point of painful overstimulation, until Marcelo’s practically sobbing.

Sascha feels like he’s burning up from the inside, like if he were to let go, every bit of him would fly apart. Marcelo reaches back, and grips the hand Sascha has on his hip, twining their fingers together and squeezing, once. Strangely, it’s that that sends him over the edge, spilling himself into the tight clutch of Marcelo’s body and splitting open.

He groans and collapses down on top of Marcelo, letting him take all of Sascha’s weight. The two of them lie together like that. Marcelo doesn’t even complain about the fact that Sascha is squishing him. He’s never said so explicitly, but Sascha suspects he likes it. Sascha runs his hands up and down Marcelo’s sides, his arms, light enough to tickle. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and he shudders a little underneath Sascha.

“Oof,” he says. “Get off me, you big lug.”

Sascha slumps down, going boneless just to be an asshole. When he pushes himself up, they both groan at the feeling of him slipping out of Marcelo. He leans down, watching come and lube leak out of Marcelo’s ass, and can’t help himself from reaching out and pressing two fingers inside of Marcelo, all the way to the third knuckle.

“Oh  _fuck_ ,” Marcelo gasps.

Sascha finger fucks him lazily for a moment, wondering idly if Marcelo could get hard again. Maybe he could take Marcelo down his throat and suck him dry.

“Stop, stop,” Marcelo gasps, when Sascha hits his prostate particularly dead on.

Sascha reluctantly pulls his fingers free, and thinks  _maybe later_. If they had more time, he could tie Marcelo up and force him to take it until he was hard again, shaking and desperate to come. It’s a good thought, gets his dick twitching where it’s nestled by his thigh.

Instead, he reluctantly rises from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, running the water and bringing out a warm washcloth. He uses it to wipe Marcelo down, enjoying the way Marcelo sighs and stretches underneath his ministrations.

“ _Wow_ ,” Marcelo says, sounding a little breathless, “I knew that was going to be awesome, but I didn’t know it would be _that_ awesome.”

Sascha laughs because, of course, Marcelo would say something that dorky after something like this. He turns his body to face Marcelo and says, “It was just okay, in my opinion.”

He tries super hard not to smile but can’t help himself because Marcelo looks truly offended for a second before he gets it. When he does, he hits Sascha with the hand that is closest to him and lets it rest on Sascha’s chest. Sascha reaches up and threads their finger together, “We are kind of fucked now, Melo.”

Marcelo doesn’t look at him. Just squeezes his hand quickly before saying, “We’ve been fucked for a while now, Sascha, except now we can actually be fucked though, so that’s a plus.”

Sascha laughs with his whole body because that’s the funniest and most insightful thing he’s ever heard Marcelo Melo say and, holy fuck, he can’t stop. Pretty soon, Marcelo joins him and then they’re lying on the bed, holding hands, laughing their asses off, like they have the whole world at their feet.

They have to be up early for their flight tomorrow, but, for now, Sascha arranges them on the bed to his liking, Marcelo tucked along his front, their hips and thighs pressed together.

“I want to be the big spoon,” Marcelo mumbles. He sounds half asleep already.

Sascha smiles against the back of his neck. Marcelo mutters softly as he dozes off, rolling over so he’s facing Sascha instead. He burrows his face against Sascha’s naked chest before settling down, his breath slowing to a slow even pace.

 


End file.
